


In Brevity

by orangeflavor



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24119677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeflavor/pseuds/orangeflavor
Summary: "In the staccato between their heartbeats, in the air between their words, in the shudder between their ribs – in brevity, do they find the infinite."    -  Jon and Sansa.  Drabble series.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 146





	1. To Hasten

**Author's Note:**

> For the May 2020 Jonsa Drabblefest on tumblr. Day One: Linger.
> 
> Whew, exactly 500 words. ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

In Brevity

Chapter One: To Hasten

_"In the staccato between their heartbeats, in the air between their words, in the shudder between their ribs – in brevity, do they find the infinite."_ Jon and Sansa. Drabble series.

* * *

He thinks perhaps it started that grey morning she came through the gates of Castle Black, tumbling into his arms with a fierceness that had rocked him, swayed him there on his feet with her weight in his arms, a blinding, half-formed breath of her name expelled into her hair, her responding whimper nuzzled into his bearded cheek, and how the terror had bled instantly from his lungs – the terror that had first settled into him when he woke upon that cold wooden slab, the terror that only ever grew stronger, harsher, more pungent, when he watched the feet of his killers swinging in the wind.

The kind of terror that had him missing the dark in its easy blackness, in its simple envelopment.

Or perhaps it started when she first climbed beneath his furs with a hushing mouth at his ear, her hand easing his bunched shoulders back when he stiffened at her presence, curling at his back as the breath rattled from him uneasily, her name a question on his lips, drowsy with sleep and confusion and a strange, earnest longing he hadn't felt since he was a boy, just playing at being a man, and so, so lonely.

The kind of lonely that had him settling back along the sheets when she pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades and sighed into his skin, the threat of tears along her exhale, her fingers curled in the tunic at his waist.

Perhaps it started this very night, when she pleaded with him to _listen_ , when she panted her desperation, told him there was no getting Rickon back, when she wrung her hands before her, trembling, vibrant in her fury, her grief, mouth a sharpened tool, a wounding thing, her eyes imploring on his, even still, the words ripe and branding between them, when she'd promised never to go back and Jon found something snapped clean into place within him at the words, a clarity so cutting it had him stalking toward her before he knew the need was in him.

But it would be a lie to say it started now, this instant, this lung-splitting moment when he's buried inside her, when he has her spread out across the table, skirts bunched at her hips, the maps and battle pieces toppled to the floor after a violent sweep of his arm, her legs hiked up around his waist, urging him deeper, her eyes fixed to his as he drives into her again and again, her nails digging half-moons along the nape of his neck when she drags his mouth down to hers.

No, he has no wish to hasten after death any longer. He has no need for that easy dark anymore, that all-consuming blackness. Hasn't for a while now.

He wants this life, he finds – with startling certainty.

He wants to linger here a while longer.

When she breathes his name into his mouth it is like life again.

And Jon has no more wish to hasten.


	2. To Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I'm all out of order for this drabble event. Whatevs. I write what I write. I'm never on time. I've come to accept that.
> 
> This is for Day Five, Winterfell.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

In Brevity

Chapter Two: To Stay

" _In the staccato between their heartbeats, in the air between their words, in the shudder between their ribs – in brevity, do they find the infinite."_ \- Jon and Sansa. Drabble series.

* * *

They make it to the door of her chambers well into the night, after wrapping Rickon in pristine sheets, after burning all the banners of flayed men, after sitting together in the main hall nursing mugs of ale and staring into the fire, after Sansa takes a deep, soldering breath and stands to bid him goodnight, after Jon promises to accompany her to her door, brooking no argument.

He aches at the slip of a smile that graces her features in return, before she's turning and leaving the hall, his footsteps trailing after hers.

"Are you sure?" she asks him, hand on the threshold of the Lord's chambers.

He offers a weary chuckle. They've been over this already. "You should have it," he says, motioning behind her. "Winterfell is yours."

She stares at him, a flicker of shadow passing over her features, and Jon's gaze shifts to the curl of her nails along the wooden threshold. He steps closer, eyes sliding back to hers in concern. "I can guard your door tonight, if you wish."

She barks a laugh, short and sharp, her head shaking, and there's a sniffle there beneath her breath, her free hand rubbing at her nose. It's most unladylike.

Most endearing.

"I'm safe now," she whispers, voice watery. She clears her throat. "I'm home now – with you."

Jon nods his assurance, throat clogging with unspoken words.

Home now – with her.

"No need to guard the door," she tells him, voice catching, shaking even as she urges him from her.

Jon swallows back his trepidation, muscles still coiled tight from the day's earlier battle, the mud still caked beneath his fingernails, the blood still staining his scalp.

Only so much washing can be done.

Some things stay.

Sansa stares at him, head tipping to the side, and then she reaches for his cheek, hand soft along his bearded chin, fingers curling along his jaw.

He leans into the touch without meaning to, face crumbling softly, a worn, weak exhale leaving him.

Exhaustion borne of loss.

(But some things stay. _She_ \- she will stay.)

"Goodnight, brother," she whispers, leaning forward to plant a kiss along his cheek, lips lingering at the corner of his mouth, and he very nearly tastes her, dips into her with the touch, voice lodging in his throat, before she's pulling away, her hand slipping from his cheek like a regret.

He watches the door close slowly behind her, presses his hands to the wood, braces his forehead against it with a heavy sigh.

Winterfell is hers, yes, but she -

She will stay his.

She will stay.

(It's the only home he wants now.)


	3. To Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the staccato between their heartbeats, in the air between their words, in the shudder between their ribs – in brevity, do they find the infinite." - Jon and Sansa. Drabble series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like continuing this drabble series outside of the Jonsa Drabble Event.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

In Brevity

Chapter Three: To Find

_"In the staccato between their heartbeats, in the air between their words, in the shudder between their ribs – in brevity, do they find the infinite."_ \- Jon and Sansa. Drabble series.

* * *

"Do you ever think about..." Her voice trails off into the night, lips pulled into a tight line.

Jon glances to her beside him, watches the way she tugs the cloak tighter around her shoulders, eyes over the ramparts. It's unbearably quiet – still as the grave, which is fitting, he finds, as the dead are nearly upon them.

Sansa puffs a steady breath out into the cold, shaking her head.

Jon studies her in silence, before dipping his head, watching the toe of his boot dig into the muddied snow at his feet, eyes fixed to the uneven crest and fall of it. His frown harshens along his lips. "I think about a lot of things, Sansa," he says finally, barely a croak.

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Mostly concerning you," he finishes, a rueful chuckle lighting the end of his words. He looks up at her then.

Her knuckles are white where she grips at her cloak, her jaw already trembling, and then she blinks at him – once, twice, furiously. He sees the shift in her before she even turns fully to him.

"Jon..." she breathes, the air rattling from her, and she reaches for him.

His hands are there already, grasping at her forearms, holding her steady, holding her, _holding her_.

"I'll find you," he tells her, voice rough, his whole body stepping into hers. "When this war is over when the fighting's done, I'll find you." He feels her unsteady exhale along his cheeks.

"Jon, you can't – you can't possibly promise – "

"I'll find you," he swears, vehement – his hands sliding up her arms, over her shoulders, to brace at the base of her neck, thumbs curving along her jaw. "Whatever may come, I will _find you_ , do you understand me?" he breathes tightly, gripping her to him.

Her hands wind around his wrists, her body slumping into his, and it's almost like an embrace, almost enveloping in its closeness.

His heart falters in his chest, his voice catching, and this is everything – _everything_ – he'd always wished would never come to be.

"I'm scared," she says on a shaky exhale, eyes already rimmed with tears. She shakes her head, gasping suddenly, hands curled tight along his wrists. "Gods, but I'm so scared, Jon," she shudders out, eyes closing on the words, and then he's pulling her into him, winding his arms around her frame, cradling her head at his shoulder, her mouth pressed to his neck, the trembling line of his lips braced at her temple, and it's a ragged exhale that leaves him, a frantic grip at her back, his body rocking into her, desperate, reckless, _aching –_

(Scared.)

"Be brave," he mutters into her hair, fingers winding into the strands. "Be Stark," he finishes, voice tight, a clench at his heart he likes to call remembrance.

Or maybe it's faith.

Sansa sniffles in his hold, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, her mouth dangerously close to his, her tears already spilling along her cheeks. "Like you," she says, jaw clenching.

Jon stares at her, breathless.

And he loves her, he finds.

He loves her, he loves her, he –

"Sansa," he croaks out, hand cradled at the back of her neck.

She nods, lip caught between her teeth. "Be brave," she repeats on a hoarse whisper, as though to herself, nodding in some measure of reassurance. Her hand braces against his cheek.

They stay staring at each other for long moments. Long enough that the first horn sounds in the distance before they think to part. Long enough that it's only the clang of battle-readiness that has her hand slipping from his cheek.

He catches it in his own sword-roughened palm before she can retract it fully.

Her mouth parts, her tears still gathered in the corners of her eyes.

Jon breathes deep, lets it to air. Something long-unhooked settles into place inside him. "I'll find you," he tells her, thumb pressed into the hollow of her palm, a kiss of skin, a touch of promise.

Perhaps more accurately, he doesn't plan to lose her in the first place.


End file.
